Along the red dirt roads of rural western Kenya, the foliage is so thick in places that car windows need to be shut tight to protect occupants from scratches by thorns and branches that slip through even the slimmest of cracks. These roads wind endlessly, deceiving me into thinking, “I’m in the middle of nowhere”. Then suddenly, the growth clears and a school appears. Up the road a spell, a church looms out of the trees on the right. And over there, perched near the edge of the road, a tiny “shop” blossoms – selling sodas, rice, cooking oil, soap, and other small items. And then, there are the people – standing, walking, sitting, moving cargo or animals along the road’s edge. I’m always surprised by the number of people on their way somewhere.
Tucked behind thick hedges of lantana or bougainvillea, there is life. It’s hard to see, but as we pass by, I get a glimpse of a mud hut, or a concrete block house or occasionally, a large home, and I wonder,
“Who lives in that one?”
“Who visits or cares for them as they age or get sick?”
“Who brings mercy to someone suffering, hidden from view?”
Over the years, I’ve crossed many thresholds into many of these types of homes. Led by devoted deaconesses, I’ve witnessed suffering so intense that it leaves me breathless. Sitting silently in a dark hut, there is an elderly woman with dementia–confused and paranoid about her few “things” she gathers tightly around her. She is left alone for hours because her family must leave for work. In that house over there is a young widow, who herself is dying of AIDS and frets about who will care for her five young children when she is gone. Through this doorway is another mother of three trying to keep her family together and feed them as she cares for her husband who suffered a traumatic brain injury sustained after robbers nearly beat him to death.
If this were the end of their stories, I would despair from sheer hopelessness. But into these lives and mostly hidden places, enters the Light of Christ. The deaconesses of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Kenya (ELCK) bring Christ, often entering while singing hymns of comfort and maybe bringing a small sack of maize or sugar. They quietly care for those they visit, mostly out of view, steadfastly tending to the bodies and souls of those who suffer. This is their calling–their vocation. This is mercy. This is Christ embodied.
Palliative care is mercy care and it takes dedication to continue to serve. It is a long-term commitment to help those in need, day in and day out. The reward for the deaconesses’ work is not a paycheck, (most of them work unpaid), nor is it public accolades (for that is rare). Their reward is Christ, faithfully receiving and then sharing Him and His mercy.
Now, there are new faces added to this collage of mercy – Community Health Volunteers like Sampson, Joseph, Flora, Rose, and Ruth. These are but a few of the over thirty volunteers we have trained. Collectively they are called CHVs. Over the span of two palliative care trainings, I’ve come to know them better, beyond simply recognizing their faces around a table behind their hand-made name tags, fashioned out of folded paper.
Sampson is a slight figure with skin like dark chocolate. He often wears a baseball cap, probably picked up at the local clothing market, and maybe a T-shirt he received from other healthcare trainings, with medical logos over it. One shirt boldly states in large letters across his back “Blood Pressure Matters”. I chuckle. He is quiet, kind and dedicated to serving those under his care, close to home, near the Atemo Health Centre. He has come to the training on palliative care to soak in precious bits of new knowledge that will help him care for his clients, his neighbors, just a little better.
Then there is Joseph, a retired school teacher, who is wiry, both in physique and personality. He sometimes challenges me during the training class. This “muzungu” (me, the white person), has learned a lot from this thoughtful, caring man. Let’s just say our classroom discussions are lively!
Like the deaconesses, with whom I have many experiences, these CHVs, new and now somewhat familiar to me, often suffer poverty and want in their own households, but remain faithful to their calling. In Kenya, those in need of care and those providing care, are sometimes hard to distinguish. Incredibly, a CHV may have up to 100 people under his or her watchful eye. So yes, the challenges are great.
These CHVs, including deaconesses and pastors of the ELCK, are the heart and soul of Rehema Open Door, our near-ready palliative care and hospice center in rural western Kenya. Even as the Rehema clinic construction continues, the foundations of mercy are solid under our feet with these humble servants eager to work with the clinic. Our future is bright. We look forward to adding nurses, doctors and other professional staff as we move forward and focus on operations. We are blessed.
Always Mercy,
Pamela
